These Ties That Bind
by celcette
Summary: Because it has, is and will always be you and me. Fabang. QuinnxMike with slight Klaine
1. November 13, 2022

November 13, 2022

Ten years.

Ten years since you watched her golden locks swish in a constricting, harsh ponytail. Ten years since you last saw that all too lovable eyebrow raise.

Ten years since you sat in Glee Club, twiddling with your bic pen, half listening to Finn's latest grilled cheese expedition while always keeping an eye on the girl who owned your heart without knowing it.

You don't know what caused you to think back to Lima, Ohio lately. Back to McKinley. Back to Glee Club. Back to _her_. You just do. It didn't bother you at first. You figured it was natural. Everyone looked back every now and again. At least, that's what you learned from those damn psychology classes your parent insisted you take.

But those rare instances when you find your mind wandering back to those hazel eyes become regular. Suddenly you stopped halfway through a dance routine when a flash of perfect blond hair passed you. Suddenly you hummed 'Don't stop believing' under your breathe on your way to the dance studio you co-owned with one Brittany Pierce. Suddenly all you heard, saw, though, smelt and _breathed_ is Quinn Fabray.

One night, you can't stop yourself. You'd been itching to do it all along, but your better judgment told you not to. Not that night though. That night your desire to know, to _see_ who she is now, takes full control. You played with the tabs on your browser first, switching from your E-mail to YouTube to Tumblr. You stalled for a bit, because as much as you wanted to know, you also didn't.

Finally, after much stalling, you did it. You punched those eleven characters into your keyboard, twelve if you count the space in between and searched her up. Sure enough, she showed up on your screen. Only four words registered in your mind, and have registered in your mind ever since _that_ night.

_I still love you_.


	2. January 1, 2023

January 1, 2023

You learned two valuable lessons in med school. One, peach scrubs look delectable on display, but horrendous during surgery. Two, Beth Fabray Corcoran would have been proud. Very proud. Because for all of who you were-the stuck up teen mom with more insecurities than dresses-the last thing anyone expected was for the word 'doctor' to be put before your name.

During your internship, you learned the art of consistency. You had to. Patients wouldn't take well to an incorrect dosage of morphine, after all. To further ease your adaptation to the skill that is consistency, you made everything in your own life, personal and professional, consistent.

You'd regularly wake at 7AM, on call or not. You'd order the same tuna sandwich from Dustin's every Wednesday, even when you so desperately wanted a ham and cheese sandwich instead. You revolved your life around consistency, because it's what you've been trained to do.

But on New Year's eve, your chain of consistency broke into numerous fragments. You did what you and Kurt Hummel always did on New Year's Eve since graduation: slip into color-coordinated pajamas, uncork and finish a bottle of champagne and sit out on the patio, staring expectantly up at the dark sky of Los Angeles, California, eagerly awaiting the fireworks. It was one of the most planned, consistent evenings of your year.

Except not tonight. Right in the middle of _another_ argument about Kurt's latest boyfriend, Anton, the doorbell rang. You figured Kurt must have gotten sick of your fettucine and ordered Chinese food. You make a mental note to steal his night crème, that would teach the pale faced boy a thing or two about breaking their New Year's Eve tradition. They always had pasta on New Year's Eve.

As you swung the door open, you feel your heart stop. Because right in front of you was Mike Chang.

_Well, at least I got the Chinese part right_.


	3. January 1, 2022

January 1, 2022

"Darling, I thought we agreed that there would be no talk of heart diseases or bowels during New Year's?" you glance over to your right, your enthused chatter abruptly ending. Your hazel eyes narrow into slits, reaching for the cocktail napkin and hurling it towards Kurt.

"You brought _her_ up, clearly it would prompt me to talk about medicine," you sling back at Kurt Hummel pointedly, relaxing your back on the lawn chair outside your large bungalow found on the hills of Los Angeles. Nine years ago, getting _out_ of the cow town known as Lima, Ohio was already a miracle for yourself and Kurt Hummel. Having lived there for so long, you two always believed getting out was the best thing that could happen. It wasn't. At least, not compared to all the other things you two achieved-attending UCLA, you being selected as an intern for one of the most prestigious surgical programs in all of Los Angeles, him starting up his own fashion boutique and making it big on the Los Angeles fashion scene and becoming best friends. Compared to those things, escaping the 'Lima loser' destiny that came with your hometown was simply an inevitability.

"Talking about Beth shouldn't result in talking about surgery!" Kurt returns daintily, earning him one of your patented scowls.

"Would you rather I talk about missing her?"

"Yes, maybe then you'd stop feeling like a heartless automaton,"

"Quoting Jesse Saint James now? How McKinley of you," you're both silenced by the mention of McKinley for a bit, before Kurt speaks up.

"Do you ever think about going back?" you shake your head, because really you haven't. Life outside Lima, outside Ohio and all the history it contained, was good for you. Going back would only stunt your process, if not make it evaporate.

"Why would I?"

"Just curious,"

"No, I don't. Do you?"

"Sometimes,"

"For Blaine?" you see him grip his champagne flute, sighing deeply. Mentioning Blaine always irked that response. You know that, even after nine years and several flamboyant, fashionista boyfriends, your best friend isn't over the curly-haired boy. You find it pathetic, really. Who stays that attached for so long? Then again, you were, and actually are, incapable of love. Incapable of becoming attached. Having your heart broken in high school, and attending medical school where you were taught to squash all attachment, taught you to squash the possibility of attachment completely. Still, saying that out loud would make him punch you, and you could never rock black on your face or on your body. When he doesn't reply, you shrug nonchalantly.

"There are plenty of fish in the sea," you knew how condescending you sounded, how insensitive it was, but after nine years of being Kurt Hummel's best friend, you've also learned that sugar coating the truth wasn't acceptable in regards to you two.

"I don't want a fish, I want a Warbler,"

"Well there are plenty of other Warblers…"

"I want Blaine."

"You haven't talked to him in over five years,"

"You haven't talked to Beth since you gave birth to her, yet you still talk about her in your sleep," you merely scoff.

"That's different, she's my daughter"

"He's the love of my life,"

"Who broke up with you to go to New York!"

"You'll never understand, Quinn"

"What's that supposed to mean?" he sighs, staring at you meaningfully.

"You're a great girl, Quinn. But you don't know anything about love,"

"And you do?"

"More than you," you shake your head, finishing off your champagne.

"Not all of us can have a Blaine Anderson to be forever in love with," it's Kurt's turn to shake his head.

"Just you wait, Quinn. This time next year, you'll have your own Blaine Anderson,"

"I highly doubt that,"

"Like you do everything else, Q?"

"Pretty much,"


	4. January 15, 2023

January 15, 2023

Seeing his name flash on the screen, you immediately have half the mind to ignore the call. You would have, heaven knows the urge to do so was enough a reason, but you know that he won't stop. He never did. Pressing your thumb down on your phone's key pad, you bring it up to your ear, hearing your best friend's persistent voice.

"Michael Anthony Chang," you roll your eyes, lazily chuckling as your bury your head on the soft cotton pillow.

"Blaine Warbler Anderson," you hope the mention of his Warbler days would hinder his persistent, sermon like tone, but it clearly doesn't as you hear him scoff.

"You're in California,"

"Last time I checked, I am. But I can check again if you want," he replies mockingly

"This isn't funny,"

"Neither are you,"

"I'm hilarious, Chang" even from just the tone of his voice, you could already _see_ his signature pout followed by his classic head shake. You knew him too well for your own good. But he had been your first true, honest friend since high school graduation. He had been your roommate at NYU. Hell, he is still your roommate, though you two no longer shared a dorm, but a three bedroom apartment at the heart of Manhattan. With all that history, you guess knowing him and his facial expressions inside and out wasn't completely unexpected. Or unwanted.

"That you are," you comply too his insistence.

"You're in California,"

"That's the second time you've said that,"

"For _her_?" You pause, turning your body to the other side of the large, king sized bed.

"Why?" he asks you, baffled.

"She's one of my oldest friends-"

"Oh spare me," Blaine interrupts. "We both know why you're there, and it's not to sit around eating noodles and reminiscing about McKinley,"

"What's your point?"

"What's yours?" he returns idly, irking a frustrated sigh from yourself.

"I didn't realize I had a point,"

"Why are you in California, Mike? It's been ten years! I thought you were, oh, I don't know, _over her_?"

"Just like you're over Kurt?" it's a low blow and you know it, but it slipped out of your mouth before you could think it over. Lately, you've been impulsive, hopping on a red eye flight to LAX on New Years Eve was evidence of that. Staying an extra two weeks when the Winter dance classes you and Brittany taught together began was also evidence of your irrational, impulsive behavior.

"I dated Kurt,"

"And I grew up with her,"

"First loves aren't forever. Especially when they're one-sided"

"What's that supposed to mean?" you snap

"It's not like she's in love with you like you are with her,"

"That's harsh,"

"So was mentioning Kurt,"

"Is there a point to this conversation? Because I was up pretty late last night and I'm not really up for listening to your endless whining and complaining," you were usually a patient man, but not now of all times.

"Mike," his tone softens, and you feel yourself relaxing. "Come back to New York where you belong. Stop living this little spur of the moment, unrealistic vacation aka pursuit to get your first love back. It's pathetic. I am coming to you as your best friend, Mike. Come back,"

"I don't want to,"

"It's not like you're even accomplishing your goal. You said so yourself, since you showed up, it's been 1AM coffee dates at Starbucks and lounging around the hospital until her shift ends. That doesn't exactly strike me as winning her over," you sigh.

"Blaine,"

"Yeah?"

"At least I was willing to compromise myself for a _chance_, take my advice and do the same. Kurt won't be single forever,"

"T-That's is not-" before he could further argue, you already hang up, hurling your phone over to the nearby couch, turning your body to the other side of the bed.

"Technically Kurt's dating someone," you flutter your previously shut eyes open, meeting a pair of know-it-all hazel orbs. Inching closer, you wrap your free arm around her waist, moving your hand up and down her back.

"This is Blaine and Kurt we're talking about, no one else stands a chance when compared to Kurt or Blaine respectively," her endearing, echoing giggle rings in your ears, and you have half the mind to reach for your phone and record it. It had to be best sound Quinn Fabray made, well, _one_ of the best, as the purring and moaning from a couple of hours before contested her giggles. But you decide against it. Anything that would make you pull away from her slender form was out of the question.

"Do you really believe that?"

"Believe what?" 

"That there's always that one person who trumps everyone else," you smirk cockily, because though she often trumped you in video games and intelligence, being forever tethered to one person is your area of expertise.

"I'm here with you, aren't I?"


End file.
